My dad stopped. “Hmm?” He turned around, brow furrowed. “She said she went to Martha’s Vineyard?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She mentioned it today. She said it has a special place in her heart, and that you two went there together.”
An odd expression crossed my dad’s face, one so confused that I wondered if Annie was mixing up Martha’s Vineyard with someplace else. Or maybe it was a vacation she’d wanted to take but the puzzle pieces had never fallen into place.
“She also said she first went there with Kathy…?” I tried.
The fog seemingly lifted, my dad now nodding. “That sounds familiar,” he said. “The only place those two didn’t go was the moon.” He lovingly rolled his eyes. “Erica introduced me to the Vineyard, though. I think Mom’s mistaking it for Block Island, off the coast of Rhode Island. I was the twins’ age, maybe? It was one of the last vacations Dad came on with us, before his anxiety really ramped up…” He trailed off. “Anyway, I remember not especially loving it. That New England water wasfreezing.” He pretended to shiver. “If I were you, I’d pack a wetsuit for the reunion.”
I laughed. Every summer, we drove ten hours south to spend the last week of July in the Outer Banks. The ocean felt like bathtub water there.
But Martha’s Vineyard…I still thought, and wished Pops or Kathy Ryan was still alive to corroborate. Did Annie have any pictures?
Sadly, I doubted it. Because as much as my grandmother loved seeing the world, she didn’t love documenting it. Most of the photos we had of her adventures were taken by Kathy.
“You sure you aren’t hungry?” my dad asked again. “Erica told me there’s something called a ‘blueberry ricotta pudding cake’ in the garage fridge.”
I snorted. “Are you serious? Her friends didn’t eat it?”
“I know, absolutely unbelievable.” My dad shook his head, then smirked. “But how lucky are we?”
“Very,” I admitted, smirking back. “Very lucky.”
* * *
After my dad and I’d eaten two slices of Erica’s cake (each), we fell into such food comas that we mutually agreed it was bedtime. Swede was softly snoring at the foot of my bed, but I was wide awake. My mind kept bouncing between my dad suggesting I take a step back from visiting Annie…and Martha’s Vineyard.Why am I obsessing over it?I chewed on my pinkie nail.Because it feels like there’s a secret there?
For as close as we were, there was a lot I didn’t know about Annie’s life. What was her favorite game as a little girl? Why did she drop out of college to go to secretarial school? Where did she and Pops go on their first date? I knew I could’ve (and, in hindsight,should’ve) asked her those questions.
Meanwhile, we’d talked about her travelsextensively, and she hadnevermentioned Martha’s Vineyard. New England? Yes. She loved Ogunquit, Maine, and charming Essex Harbor in Connecticut, and now that I thought about it, shehadmentioned a cottage on Block Island once. Its toilet had overflowed.
Yuck, I thought, and a few minutes later, I threw back mycovers and tiptoed over to my closet. Who knew? Maybe she did have some record of this trip.
And hopefully it was here, not in her furniture-filled storage unit in Pennsylvania.
Quickly and quietly, I went through everything for clues. Annie’s jewelry, records, the manila folders filled with receipts that sheneverthrew out (her antique armoire even had a letter of authenticity), as well as a Rubbermaid bin labeleddecorative glassware. I skipped that, since I’d helped my dad pack all her vases, small sculptures, and other fragile ornaments. We’d wrapped everything in newspaper.
Interestingly enough, after I found my grandparents’ wedding album and got distracted by looking through it for the millionth time, Ididfind a box filled with old-fashioned slides, but my heart sank when I realized I couldn’t tell what they were without a projector. “Dammit,” I muttered.
Swede woke up and joined the treasure hunt after I’d lifted Annie’s heavy typewriter off the closet’s top shelf. The golden retriever stared at its blacked-out keyboard, then gave me a quizzical look.
I yawned. “Maybe it forced her to memorize the keys?”
He wagged his tail.
It wasn’t until I was sifting through a battered box of miscellaneous items—old birthday cards, monogrammed stationery, yellowed postcards from friends—that my heart beat with hope.There was an elegant Hermès box at the bottom, but her other signature orange boxes had been neatly organized in another container. Why was this one on its own?
Because there wasn’t a silk scarf in it.
“Oh my god,” I breathed upon seeing its contents—a collection of Polaroids and small watercolor paintings. “Swede,look.”
Ever the Velcro dog, Swede was half on my lap.
As silly as it sounded, I felt like I’d just unearthed Leonardo DiCaprio’s long-lost sketch of Kate Winslet inTitanic.
I picked up a photo, recognizing my grandmother right away. Wearing a white tennis dress, she smiled for the camera and held a glass of white wine. Pinot grigio, I knew. She always ordered it at restaurants or had a bottle chilling in her fridge at home.
She’s barefoot, I also noted.She’s standingbarefootin the grass.
